


Spleen and the Ideal

by poisonandperfection



Category: The Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde
Genre: Bickering, M/M, Platonic Affection, all they do is talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-18
Updated: 2015-02-18
Packaged: 2018-03-13 13:50:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3383954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisonandperfection/pseuds/poisonandperfection
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An average evening in Basil's studio, before the traumatic introduction of Dorian Gray.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spleen and the Ideal

"What is the whole physical life but a combination of natural elements? Really, Basil, idealism doesn't suit you."

"That's Pater." The painter narrowed his eyes at him.

"What?"

"Pater. You're quoting Walter Pater's Renaissance-- rather poorly, too."

"Am I?"

"Yes, Harry, you are! How often do you steal your aphorisms? Why haven't I noticed?"

"I don't _steal_ ," was Lord Henry's complaint. "I am a product of my reading. I consume, digest, recombine, and reproduce the words and notions that appeal to me."

"Like a sea star, or some other creature whose mouth is also its anus? That's rather apt."

"Crudity doesn't suit you, either."

"Petulance suits you perfectly," Hallward rejoined affectionately. "I should sketch you like this. Hold still. Keep thinking of how much you resent me."

" _Basil_."

"Alright, alright, you may move. Don't pretend it doesn't flatter you enormously to be sketched."

"On the contrary. I have no wish to be the vehicle for your artistic ideas. If I were to be painted, I would hire a worse painter, one who never puts anything into his paintings whatsoever, short of paint."

"Is that a compliment?"

"It means that I wish to be flattered in sketches, not drawn to draw the eye to the fascinating proportions of my nose, or its symbolic value, or the reluctant affection that you feel when you look at me."

"Very well. I shall draw your nose to be less prominent from this day onward."

"Few people appreciate what a bastard you are, Basil Hallward."

"I learned it all from you, Harry."

"You most certainly did not. You've never learned a thing from me. You avoid it entirely. In fact, to protect yourself, you rarely listen to a word I say."

"That's _hardly_ true."

"You've been reading Pater's Renaissance-- I saw it on your desk-- and this is the third time I have quoted his conclusion in our debate--"

"Argument."

"Don't be petulant because you lost. And you didn't notice either of the first two times."

"To be perfectly fair, that is a second edition Renaissance. It doesn't have the Conclusion."

"That is an even worse slight against me, Basil! I shall buy you a first edition tonight."

"I don't need a first edition. I have you."

"Are you accusing me of Paterian Aestheticism?"

"Are you really so spiteful as to deny that? And I suspect the adjective would be Paternal, Harry. It _is_  a word already."

"A word with a different meaning, Basil! And I don't like Pater. He accidentally touched upon a great truth and promptly removed it from his book, lest anyone should get ideas about believing in it. No, I don't think I like Walter Pater overmuch."

"Of course you don't." Hallward smiled fondly and shook his head. "Forgive me, then. But Pater aside, you should know by now that I have no interest in idealism. I am a painter, Harry, not a poet. My craft depends on Paterian-- Paternal-- materialism."

"Hah!" said Lord Henry, childishly pleased by his mistake.

"Do shut up. I rely on the idea of the material, particulate nature of the world. Otherwise, what beauty, what true spirit could I hope to capture on canvas?"

"You intend to reproduce, particle by particle, the structure of beauty?"

"I intend to learn the forces which govern it and to create it in new forms, like electricity from lightning."

"How poetic of you, Basil. I quite approve. I am certain that there is nothing in nature which mankind cannot surpass. The natural world is really very dull-- artifice is the way of the future."

"At times like these, I nearly think I see the humanist in you peeping out. You're a terrible cynic, Harry, and I do mean that you are terrible at being one."

"Why, Basil! First aestheticism and now humanism? You wound me, and still miss the mark. I'm viciously Catholic, you know. My mother has seen to it."

"Your love of insulting things seems to denote affection, if I may presume upon your treatment of me, so you must be particularly pious. I am sure the clergy missed a new Renaissance when you failed to take the cloth. Though you seem to have taken every other cloth you've touched, since. May I feel your coat? I've been thinking about the sheen of the light on the velvet since you walked into the room. It looks very soft."

"Come here, then. I'm certainly not getting up."

Hallward leaned lightly against the back of his chair. "It is soft. Isn't it terribly warm?"

"Sweltering. Unendurable. But very dashing, or so my tailor tells me."

"You never fail to make me laugh."

"I work very hard for it. Laughter is--"

"No more aphorisms, Harry."

"No? Then what shall I say?"

"Say nothing. If you're capable of such a thing."

"I am entirely-- Ah. Hm."

Hallward laughed again. "You can be such a child, Harry."

Lord Henry smiled up at him.

Hallward pressed deft fingers into the muscles of his shoulders. "You are a Catholic, who never confesses but has been struck by the beauty of the ritual and the doctrine since you were a boy. You are a humanist, who believes utterly in the beautiful future of mankind. You are an aesthete, who loves beautiful things in all aspects of life. You give your wife ludicrous sums of money to spend as she chooses, because you feel guilty that you do not love her. You abhor your brothers, but you have never missed a Christmas. You are both the best and the worst man I know."

"That is a blatant lie. Last year I had some kind of terrible illness and I didn't leave the house on Christmas."

"You had a hideous hangover, and you saw them on Christmas Eve."

"How do you remember these things, Basil?"

"You called me Christmas morning. You were still very drunk and you complained about your brothers for nearly an hour."

"I rather think I remember that."

"You should. It was quite an event."

"Well then, I object to your summary of my marriage."

"On what grounds?"

"Wives are risen women. Like fallen women, we pay them by the hour, but we pay them to remove themselves from our company."

"Don't compare Victoria to a prostitute, Harry."

"It is a comparison by contrast, Basil. Victoria is far too good for me."

"Not too good for you. Too good for what you pretend you are, perhaps." Hallward dug his fingers into Lord Henry's shoulders again.

"But you know better?"

"Oh, yes. I only wish she did."

"If Victoria saw something other than what I wished her to see, I would be highly offended."

"But I may see what I like?"

"You are an artist, Basil. You see the ideal where it doesn't exist, which is to say anywhere at all."

Hallward bent and dropped a kiss onto the smooth surface of his hair. "Perhaps my ideal is different from yours."


End file.
